


nature inclines us

by marschallin



Series: everyone is a dad (better title forthcoming) [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Cute Kids, Everybody Lives, F/F, Gen, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Ten Years Later, everyone is a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 13:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17602202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marschallin/pseuds/marschallin
Summary: The June Rebellion succeeds and life goes on; or: how Enjolras accidentally became a stepfather





	nature inclines us

Combeferre, waistcoat unbuttoned, turned over an old issue of _Le Follet_ in his hands. He did not stir when the door opened, when Enjolras’s boots clip-clopped across the parquet floor, or when Enjolras touched his arm and sat down in the armchair opposite him.

“Adèle-Sophie and I have decided to separate.”

It was said calmly, almost  casually. Enjolras leaned forward to better examine his friend’s face and, to his surprise and relief, found him distracted but not distressed. The corners of his eyes were red, and his upper lip chapped, but those details spoke of a previous grief, put away once dealt with.

“I am very sorry.” It was a weak, inadequate response but those were the only words that sprung to mind. What else could he say? That for weeks he had watched the happy couple struggle to make light conversation over meals and, when called upon to make a show of affection, they seemed to be poorly-prepared actors on stage, struggling to remember their lines? But then, Combeferre had not made the slightest show of unhappiness, and Enjolras did not feel himself sufficiently versed in marriage to make any definitive assessment. Certainly there was an apparent loss in visible closeness since the wedding but then, they had two children and an extraordinary number of responsibilities between them.

For some time, Combeferre made no response. Enjolras tried to read the article that he had been perusing, but could only make out a headline about hatpins.

Combeferre cleared his throat and, with a sudden violence, thrust the paper into the fire. “She has found a lover. I do not wish to stand between them. We decided, after all, that this was to be an egalitarian marriage, founded on mutual affection. The household will run as it has; I do not wish her to be separated from the children, nor will I let myself be separated from them. Our new arrangement will make no great difference in my life, really. I have expected this announcement for some time. See, so you must not pity me; all will be well.”

Enjolras waited and, as expected, Combeferre continued after a pause. “I cannot think why it should pain me when, I confess, I have been feeling as Adèle-Sophie has, that we have grown apart and that… We are fundamentally unable to behave as a husband and wife ought to. Have I shocked you?”

It had not escaped his notice that Combeferre slept in his dressing room every night, and that he rarely dared to enter Adèle-Sophie’s chambers, even to give an urgent message or to discuss their shared business. But then, little Paul was not yet a year old, and the birth had been difficult.

Thinking of Paul reminded Enjolras of the more practical considerations at hand. “And her lover? Will you raise his children?”

Combeferre laughed, loud and full-bodied, and the room seemed a little bit brighter. “No, Adèle-Sophie’s lover is quite incapable of such a thing. It is her dressmaker, a Mademoiselle Marie Bescond. She has mathematical ambitions; an altogether remarkable young woman. And very pretty.”

“Oh,” said Enjolras.

“Now I have shocked you and will shock you further. I knew her inclinations at the time of our marriage. I thought, foolishly, that I was the exception to her usual preferences, and that she was mine.” He stared openly at Enjolras, perhaps daring him to object.

It was the answer to a puzzle that Enjolras did not know that he had been struggling to complete. There was another feeling too, shameful in the back of his mind: relief.

“You loved her, though. Do not be a revisionist; I remember how you looked at her at your engagement party,” Enjolras said slowly. He was struggling with to fit the final puzzle piece; he would not be able to understand the situation until he banished the memory of Combeferre, kissing Adèle-Sophie on the cheek as they walked arm-in-arm through the Jardin des Plantes.

“Oh I did love her terribly, and perhaps I still do. Much of that was a fraternal love, as silly as it may seem. It was the joy of friendship with a kindred spirit, and, well— We both wanted children, a home. We wanted to host salons and raise chickens. In that way, she has exceeded my expectations. I could not ask for a better wife.” Combeferre looked wistfully down at the fire; for the first time in their conversation, he seemed near tears. Enjolras took his hand in his own.

“It is as you said: all will be well.”

 

* * *

 

At breakfast, Adèle-Sophie was in better spirits than Enjolras could remember seeing her in some time. She even leaned down to kiss Combeferre on the cheek as she took the baby from his arms. This surprised and embarrassed them both; they began to talk loudly of the day’s schedule. Across the table, Marcelline, spooning porridge into her mouth, made a face at Enjolras. He shrugged in response.

“Oh, before I forget,” Adèle-Sophie said, in the manner of one who has practiced what she is going to say in the mirror, “Marie is coming over after dinner; she wants to try and alter my red dupioni for the Courfeyracs’ ball. I hope that is not inconvenient.”

Marcelline dropped a great deal of porridge down the front of her dress.

“Of course. If…” Combeferre paused and stared pointedly into his coffee. “Perhaps… It seems a shame for Mademoiselle Bescond to work so late tonight; will she not join us for dinner?”

Adèle-Sophie motioned for the governess to tend to Marcelline’s dress and became very interested in smoothing down Paul’s hair, which had begun to grow straight up in the back. When she spoke, her voice was curiously choked. “I think Marie would like that very much. How very generous you are, my dear.”

“It is only a dinner invitation,” said Combeferre, who was very red.

“All the same, I….” Adèle-Sophie turned to the nursemaid, engaged in helping to mop up Marcelline’s mess, and flung the baby into her arms like a very confused sack of potatoes. “Paul needs to nurse, and I need to finish this week’s writing or I’ll be up all night. My apologies, I hope you enjoy your...” She made a twirling hand gesture. “Yes, enjoy yourselves.”

She half-ran out of the room, eyes watering.

“I saw a spider today,” said Marcelline, mouth full. That, oddly enough, seemed to sap Combeferre’s final reserve of strength; he took one look at her, burst into tears, and followed his wife out of the room.

 

* * *

 

At noon, Combeferre returned from the hospital for a quick meal and seemed quite recovered from the earlier scene, almost giddy. He chatted happily with Adèle-Sophie about a new book, just arrived from Paris, that suggested that the earth had previously been covered in ice and snow, and that the evidence was visible in the rock formations of the Jura. In turn, Adèle-Sophie described the spring fashions, which she assured them was all sloped shoulders and draping curls. Enjolras thought he could see a sort of half-hearted love in their conversation, how they stumbled over their words in the excitement of speaking, how Adèle-Sophie had a coffee waiting for Combeferre, who brought her news of the milliner’s new window display.

Enjolras picked at his food. He had begun to feel like a voyeur, a spy, something detestable lurking at the edges of their household.

 

* * *

 

The mood was subdued again as they dressed for dinner.

“I know I haven’t any right to be jealous,” Combeferre muttered into the mirror as he fussed with his cravat. “And I’m not, really. It’s only damnably awkward.”

Enjolras considered this. “She is your wife.”

“She would be more than happy to accept any of my lovers, as if there are scores waiting to be introduced. It just feels like an unequal equation, doesn’t it? I’m the cuckolded husband. They will talk lace and invitations, and we will talk of… Something else.” Combeferre smiled at Enjolras. “I know it must be doubly awkward for you, my friend, and I cannot tell you how glad I am that you are here.”

“I would not be anywhere else,” Enjolras said. He reached out and tightened Combeferre’s cravat knot and saw his Adam’s apple bob slightly and felt strange, almost flattened. He turned away, perhaps too quickly. “You are not a cuckold; you are engaging in a grand experiment, are you not? There is always progress to be made and it does not surprise me that you are at the forefront.”

In the candlelight, Combeferre looked ten years younger. It was easy to imagine that they were on their way to Mère Catherine and then the theatre, perhaps with Courfeyrac running habitually late and Jean Prouvaire saving their seats. But Combeferre was nearly forty, and they were not in Paris, and Courfeyrac was down in Carpentras, and Jean Prouvaire was long dead.

Combeferre cleared his throat and pushed his glasses farther up his nose, bringing Enjolras back to the present. “It is my intention— it is _our_ intention— to be as discreet as possible. Though we have a quiet life here and the Republic rarely has need of me, I would not like to shame you, to shame all we’ve worked for. I promise, I am not taking up any banners for the cause of lesbians and other inverts.”

Something about those words, _lesbians and inverts,_ made Enjolras’s stomach curl in on itself. He had not given much thought to what Adèle-Sophie and her lover did together, assuming it was much like what she did with Combeferre: set out coffee and discuss books. Nor had he thought of Combeferre taking a lover in turn, and what that would consist of. Now, his imagination quickly supplied those details; it was suddenly much too vivid.

What ugly words. _Lesbians and inverts_. They reminded him of Balzac, of a dirty illustration, and Combeferre and his wife were so clean, so meticulous, so unlike a novel. If that was what they called themselves, what would they call Enjolras?

“Enjolras?” He was being stared at. Combeferre’s Adam’s apple disappeared under his collar. “Enjolras, I did not mean to offend.”

 _Ah_ , so he was also included in that classification. He was one of the inverts, one of a pair with Combeferre.

It was with great effort he forced himself to speak. “I am not offended. I am… I am wondering how to be most helpful to you. You are worried about your reputation, and I want to first remind you that you are hardly the first of our number to embark on an unusual domestic arrangement. And, secondly, that your life is your own, and I  will stand with you, no matter what banner you take up.”

They embraced and Enjoras, again, felt winded.

 

* * *

 

To what extent he could judge such things, Enjolras did not find Mademoiselle Bescond beautiful. She was tall, snub-nosed, and had large, freckled arms. To her credit, she looked frightened out of her wits. Had he expected a smouldering temptress? She was ordinary, even awkward. She drank very little wine and ate very much, very quickly.

“Marie, tell Monsieur Enjolras about your sister’s child,” Adèle-Sophie said archly. She was magnificent in green, and she presided over them like a queen. Mademoiselle Bescond blushed and shook her head.

“I am sure Monsieur Enjolras is tired of such compliments--”

“Nonsense, I’m sure he’s nothing of the sort. Go on.” Adèle-Sophie laid her hand on Mademoiselle Bescond’s arm.

“It’s silly really.” Mademoiselle Bescond blushed harder, the pink of her cheeks contrasting terribly with the redness of her hair. “Only my sister admires you very much and when her son was born in ‘33, she named him Valentin Michel Enjolras Dupuis. We all call him Michel, after you.”

Enjolras did not know what to say. He felt some disgust at the idea of such hero-worship, of being honored for his survival when so many worthier men fell. He also felt a sudden rush of pity for Mademoiselle Bescond, with her peasant’s accent and big brown eyes.

“I hope the child is well,” he said. “Is he in school?”

Mademoiselle Bescond visibly relaxed and her color returned. “Yes Monsieur, he’s only just begun but he’s very smart. Perhaps he’ll be a lawyer, or a doctor like Monsieur Combeferre. They say that anything is possible in the Republic.”

“Yes,” said Adèle-Sophie. “Isn’t it grand?”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i share custody of this au and its inhabitants with the inimitable oilan, my sworn comrade in needing more fanfiction about dad!amis. eventually this will continue and the children will overshadow the sad, but I had to write some sad to establish why enjolras is (eventually) a stepdad. 
> 
> the title comes from a quote by charles fourier: “It is certain that nature inclines us toward the amorous orgy [...]” 
> 
> i regret to inform you all that i have no plans to write an orgy.
> 
> thank you sophia for all your support and editing and thank you to @smithens for helping me figure out the household make-up <3


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